


Won't You Lay Hands On Me?

by LayALioness



Series: When the Sunset Shifts [2]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/F, F/M, Minor Character Death, uh mild sexual stuff ?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-15
Updated: 2015-06-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 12:53:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4138323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Okay, this has been great and all, but small talk’s over,” she declares, and points a finger at Octavia. “You’re a werewolf,” she points at Clarke. “And so is she.” She leans back decidedly. “So what do you want?”</p><p>Octavia grins at them with all of her teeth. “I’m super behind in Algebra II,” she says, “Wanna help me study at my place after school?”</p><p>They should probably say no.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Won't You Lay Hands On Me?

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel to Got A Curse We Cannot Lift, so you should probably read that first if you wanna be on the up and up.
> 
> Also, this begins with some minor Clexa and ends with some minor Bellarke, so. 
> 
> This is part two in an ongoing series. There will be a part three, possibly four, but no promises on anything longer than that.
> 
> Title from Wolf Like Me by TV on the Radio, which is essentially this story in song form.

They go to the lodge directly after school, and Clarke is buzzing to tell Lincoln about the new transfer student— _werewolf_ , she corrects—but the luxury car in the driveway makes her pause.

She sniffs the air, and Raven snorts. “You’re like a cartoon character,” she teases. “But lamer.”

“Shut up,” Clarke says mildly. There’s definitely someone in the lodge that she doesn’t know, but there’s that familiar smell again. She knows by now that means there’s a werewolf, and she can smell Lincoln, who seems relatively fine and unafraid, so she decides to chance it.

They’re waiting for them in the lobby, sitting side-by-side on the sofa. A tray of ginseng tea sits steaming on the table. Lincoln and a woman Clarke doesn’t recognize. She resembles him, vaguely, with the same striking bone structure and severe eyes. She has impeccable posture, and sits with her legs crossed and hair pulled back from her face. Her eyes are ringed in a shade of blue, similar to the wolf from Halloween.

She’s not sure what that means.

Lincoln greets the girls warmly, and gestures for them to sit on the couch across from them. “Clarke, Raven, this is Lexa,” he says. “My pack sister.” He smiles softly at the woman. “She was my Alpha.”

Lexa eyes the girls appraisingly, gaze lingering over Clarke. She doesn’t offer a hand to shake, and so they don’t either. It feels like some sort of stalemate, each waiting for the other to speak first.

Finally, Lincoln clears his throat. “I called Lexa for help with our wolf problem,” he explains.

“You haven’t been marking your territory,” Lexa remarks, voice steady and lilted with an accent Clarke can’t place. “This means they will try to take it from you.” She’s still looking at Clarke, and she’s pretty sure that means the words are meant for her, but she doesn’t understand them.

“What?” she asks, stupidly. “What do you mean, _my_ territory?”

Lexa regards her curiously. “You are the only Alpha in these parts,” she explains, and then turns to Lincoln. “You did not tell her?”

Lincoln is suddenly sheepish, which is new, and a little uncomfortable. “I wanted to be sure,” he admits. “She doesn’t know what it means.”

Lexa nods. “You were right to call me,” she decides. She stands, turning back to Clarke and ignoring Raven completely. “You have much to learn,” she says, “And not much time to learn it. Come.” She cuts her eyes to Raven and then back. “Leave the human.” And then she heads out the back door.

Raven stares after her. “What a bitch,” she says, only a little petulantly.

Clarke, for her part, is dumbfounded. She thinks back to those first few days of research at the library with Raven, and everything she read about Alphas. Pack leaders. She turns to Lincoln. “I’m an Alpha,” she says slowly, testing the words. “And you didn’t tell me,” she adds. He’s still a little bashful, which doesn’t make her feel better.

“I didn’t know for sure,” he repeats. “The rights pass in only certain ways—usually the eyes are an indicator, but,” he gestures at the blue of her irises. “Yours are natural, so.”

Clarke isn’t upset with him, not really. Mostly she’s just surprised, and a little confused.

She thinks back to the wolf that bit her. The one that she killed, and then buried, to feed the worms.

She can’t remember its eyes, but they were probably blue. She’s pretty sure that’s how it works, but her understanding is limited.

She thinks about the wolf from Halloween—just last night. It feels like longer, but she’s felt like that for a while, now. It’s been less than two months since she was bitten, but sometimes she’s sure it’s been years. It’s hard to remember ever _not_ being a wolf, not having the slow boiling beneath her surface. The crescent she knows so well.

She goes to find Lexa outside, putting a hand on Lincoln’s shoulder as she passes so he’ll know she’s not mad.

Lexa is gone, and in her place stands a wolf with fur a pale gray. Her eyes shine blue, and she’s smaller than Clarke expected. She’d assumed Alphas were all automatically larger, but Lexa’s practically the size of an actual wolf.

She gets the idea that Lexa’s waiting for her to shift, which. Well, she hasn’t done it since her strange show-down the night before, and she’s not really sure if she can.

She tries to replicate what it was that helped her shift before, but all she can come up with is the way the wolf had growled at Raven.

And then she’s on all-fours, claws digging into the earth. Lexa blinks, unsurprised, which seems a little unfair since this is kind of a big deal for Clarke. She gives herself a mental round of applause.

Lexa turns and dashes off into the trees, and Clarke follows like she’s done with Lincoln so many times before. They’re barely in the woods before Lexa stops beside a tree, and looks at Clarke meaningfully. Clarke tries to focus on her, but there are so many distractions—there’s a squirrel scuffling a few feet away, and something dead that she desperately wants to roll around in.

Lexa looks unimpressed, and suddenly she’s human again. Even naked, she’s formidable, and Clarke tries not to stare.

“You must mark your territory,” Lexa explains. “To let them know they are not welcome, and keep others from laying claim.”

Clarke tips her head in question, and Lexa squints her eyes, waiting for her to grasp the concept.

 _Oh_.

Squatting to pee on a tree in front of a beautiful woman is probably the most embarrassing thing Clarke has ever done.

Lexa leads her around the boundaries of Arkadia, pausing every few hundred yards to _mark_ the earth. Her bladder empties pretty quickly, so she then takes to rubbing up against the bushes, the ground, the trees instead, which she very much prefers. Eventually they end up back at the lodge, and shift back before striding inside.

Wells is there now, and he swears when they walk in, pointedly turning his attention to the ceiling. “Is this going to happen _every_ time?” he asks, only sounding a little pathetic.

Clarke snorts, while Lexa eyes him suspiciously. Lincoln wanders in, carrying an armful of clothes which he passes to them.

“You keep strange friends these days,” Lexa remarks coolly, and Wells stiffens.

“They’re good people,” Lincoln says smoothly, laying a hand on Wells’s back in reassurance. Lexa shrugs, but says nothing else.

“Where’s Raven?” Clarke asks, tugging on the borrowed tracksuit.

“She went to pick your mom up,” Wells says. “She got a flat tire at work.”

Clarke feels a pang of guilt for not being there to answer Abby’s call, and Wells must see it, because he waves a hand. “Don’t worry, she’s okay,” he assures her. “We can head back now, if you want.”

“You just want a piggy back,” Clarke teases. Wells shrugs, but that’s not a no.

Abby and Raven are home by the time Clarke and Wells get there, and she offers to help her mom with the spare.

“Oh, Raven already took care of it,” Abby smiles tiredly. Her hair is escaping the low-hanging bun at her neck, and she’s still in her scrubs. “Breakfast for dinner tonight, I think,” she muses, plucking the eggs from the fridge.

Clarke takes out two sausage patties so they can thaw. “I haven’t seen you a lot this week,” she says carefully. “Sorry.”

Abby waves her guilt away. “It’s my fault—I’ve been working doubles for Cece all week while she’s on honeymoon.” She gives Clarke a small smile. “We’ll do better next week,” she promises.

“Yeah,” Clarke nods. “We will.”

 

Clarke and Raven next see Octavia Blake when she sits down across from them in the school library. “Ancient Rome,” she says, eyeing Clarke’s textbook. “Cool. You know they had werewolves? They were called Lycans.”

“I know,” Clarke says, defensive. Octavia just shrugs at her tone and opens her own book, a Young Adult spy thriller.

She gives Raven a look that says, _Is this as weird as I think it is?_ and Raven gives one back that says, _This is_ so _weird, dude._

Clarke clears her throat to get Octavia’s attention, but she doesn’t look up from her book. Clarke speaks, anyway. “So, you’re from Oregon?”

“Not really,” Octavia says dismissively. Raven rolls her eyes exaggeratedly.

“Okay, this has been great and all, but small talk’s over,” she declares, and points a finger at Octavia. “You’re a werewolf,” she points at Clarke. “And so is she.” She leans back decidedly. “So what do you want?”

Octavia grins at them with all of her teeth. “I’m super behind in Algebra II,” she says, “Wanna help me study at my place after school?”

They should probably say no.

Octavia isn’t alone when they meet her in the parking lot. She’s standing with two nervous, gangly-looking boys. They’re both clearly wolves, and a little uncomfortable being human, which strikes Clarke as strange, but she doesn’t comment on it. She’s still not really clear on the correct werewolf etiquette.

“This is Monty and Jasper,” Octavia says without much fanfare. “They’re my brothers.”

“Like, pack-brothers,” Jasper specifies. “Not brother-brothers.” Octavia huffs and rolls her eyes, but doesn’t comment.

“Cool,” Clarke says. “Where’s your car?”

“You drove here?” Jasper asks. “But you’re a wolf.”

Clarke isn’t sure what being a wolf has to do with her driving, but. Raven raises a hand pointedly. “Hi, resident human here,” she says wryly, “With average human legs.” Jasper flushes pink.

“Sorry,” he mutters.

“Enough,” Octavia barks. Clearly patience isn’t something she’s into. She turns to Clarke. “We’ll ride with you, so I can give you directions.”

Clarke shrugs and starts towards Tangerine. “That’s fine, but the two of you will have to ride in the bed.”

“That sounds a little unsafe,” Monty teases.

“Somehow I think you’ll be fine,” Clarke grins.

Octavia sits sandwiched between Clarke and Raven, fiddling with the radio dials even though they only get two and a half stations, and periodically pointing out a turn only just before they’re supposed to take it. Raven shoots her a glare every time her knee bangs against her, but Octavia pretends not to notice.

The Blake house sits just outside the town limits, like the lodge but on the opposite end. There’s a long, winding drive through kudzu and wisteria vines that haven’t been trimmed in what looks like years. At the end sits a two story house that’s definitely seen better days. Most of the first-story windows are covered in pine board, and the door is half off its hinges. The entire building needs a new coat of paint, and the porch is nearly rotted through. It looks ready to collapse in on itself at any moment.

Raven and Clarke eye the whole thing skeptically.

“It’s a fixer-upper,” Octavia chirps. “Bell’s pretty into renovation at the moment.”

“Bell?” Clarke asks, dubious. She’s debating just driving them all to the lodge, instead. Lincoln would probably grumble about all the new blood in his lobby, but he’d still make them tea.

“Bellamy,” Monty explains.

“Octavia’s brother,” Jasper adds. “Like, brother-brother, not pack-brother. Although he’s that, too.”

“Good to know,” Raven says disinterestedly. “Are we just gonna hang out in this hot fucking truck like pariahs, or can we go in?”

Octavia shoots Raven a look of appraisal. “You’re not scared of us?”

Raven scoffs convincingly, but Clarke knows better. She doesn’t call her on it, though. They all climb out of Tangerine, and head gingerly up the rickety porch steps.

“You all live here?” Raven asks, glancing around the hollow, drafty first floor.

“It’s the pack house,” Octavia says with a shrug.

“Well, we have a pack lodge,” Raven shoots back smugly.

They do end up studying Algebra, but Clarke, Octavia and Jasper are all pretty hopeless when it comes to math, so most of the work is left up to Monty and Raven. Monty patiently tries to explain all the equations, but he doesn’t really know how to simplify them, while Raven has no patience for anyone or anything, and just ends up swearing at them a lot.

Eventually they get hungry, so they raid the chest freezer hooked up around back, filled with freshly killed black bear. It tastes amazing, and Clarke’s pretty sure she’s ruined for all other meat. Jasper cooks some on the stove for Raven, and even she agrees it’s great.

They finish the schoolwork, and the bear, and then they find out Clarke and Raven have never seen the original _Werewolf in London_ movies, so Monty hooks his laptop up and they crowd around it on the living room floor because there isn’t any furniture in the house—“Bell wants to finish redoing the walls first,” Octavia explains, while the boys roll their eyes in the background.

Clarke texts Abby around sundown, to let her know she and Raven are staying the night with some friends. Then she forwards it to Wells and Lincoln, so they don’t worry, and turns her phone off to save the battery. Raven throws a handful of popcorn at her, over Monty and Octavia’s heads, when she sees Clarke’s not paying attention to the screen.

They fall asleep sometime through the 2010 _Wolfman_. Clarke wakes at the first bit of dawn, with the sky still gray-pink around the edges. She shifts Jasper’s arm off her shoulder and gingerly creeps down the stairs, old cat-patterned quilt pulled around her shoulders. Virginian weather is mild for the most part, but the early mornings are still chilly.

She heads out to the old, rusted porch swing and sits delicately, swaying back and forth absently as she watches the world wake.

She hears a rustle from the nearby trees and turns, still too tired to feel any real concern. A dark, blue-eyed wolf slinks out of the forest into the yard. It sees her almost instantly and freezes, catching her gaze. She stares, almost amused at the stricken look in its eyes. She wasn’t aware she could catch an actual wolf off-guard—she feels a little smug about it.

Eventually he moves again, slinking up the porch steps, keeping as far from her as the railing will allow. It noses the screen door open gingerly, shooting her one last quick glare before disappearing inside.

She’s pretty sure he’s not any sort of threat to the sleeping teens upstairs, and that if he wanted to harm her he could have done so just then, so she doesn’t make any move to get up. It’s still early, and she’s still a little sleep-hazy, and she’s comfortable wrapped in a quilt on the swing. She stays a while longer, until the sky bleeds yellow, and then she heads upstairs to collect Raven.

She gives the other wolves a ride to school. She doesn’t see the black wolf again, but when she fetches the others from upstairs, another door that had previously been open is now closed. She wants to ask about him, but she doesn’t know if she should; she figures they would have mentioned him if they wanted to, so she keeps it to herself.

Wells gives her and Raven a raised brow when they show up to class in yesterday’s clothes, but he doesn’t ask about it. He knows they’ll tell him later, anyway.

She goes back to the lodge after school, while Raven takes Wells home. She needs to ask Lexa some questions about being an Alpha, and about the new pack in town, and.

She sort of just wants to see her again.

They go running together. It’s the fastest she’s ever been, and Lexa matches her every step, up until they both collapse on the earth, tongues lolling and chests heaving. Lexa nudges her head against Clarke’s neck, and grooms behind her ears. It’s surprisingly affectionate, and they sit like that for a while, catching their breaths.

They shift just outside the lodge again, and Clarke asks how to go about, being an Alpha.

Lexa rubs a hand softly down the skin of Clarke’s bare stomach, and she shudders. “You already are,” she says, and Clarke follows her inside.

That night, Clarke wakes to _Zombies Ate Her Brain_ , and answers groggily. She’s still naked, but she’s alone in her bed. She tries not to let that bother her.

“Something’s going to happen at the Homecoming game,” Wells says. “Something very not-good.”

Clarke sits up. “What?” she asks. “I mean, what’s going to happen?”

Wells makes a frustrated, strangled noise. “ _I don’t know_ ,” he huffs, and then swears. “I fucking hate this—all I know is, it’s gonna be bad. And Clarke,” he pauses. “Someone’s gonna die.”

 

Clarke tells Raven about Wells’s premonition, and then says she’s going anyway.

“Where you go, I go,” Raven declares. Wells swears at both of them, but they can’t be dissuaded.

“If I can prevent a death, I have to try,” Clarke says. It sounds selfless put like that, but really she just doesn’t know if she could handle the guilt of letting someone die when she might have been able to stop it.

“You’re going to get yourself killed,” Wells hisses, angrier than she’s ever seen. “And you’re gonna take her down with you,” he points jaggedly at Raven, who seems offended. He throws his hands up and storms off.

They go to the game, anyway.

They sit at the bottom row of the metal bleachers, tense and ready the whole time, though they don’t have to wait long. Even before halftime, something in the air shifts, and Clarke looks around wildly for the cause.

In the end, it’s pretty easy to catch sight of. Atom Walgrove, the star quarterback and Walden golden boy, begins to literally glow golden.

The storm comes pretty suddenly; the rain isn’t heavy, but it’s steady, and the water sizzles where it lands on Atom’s skin. By now, everyone’s staring, his teammates and opposing players alike frozen on the field, as he grows brighter and brighter. Clarke’s squinting; it hurts to look at him, and she has no idea how to react.

This wasn’t mentioned in any of the library books. Raven’s googling it on her phone, but from her frustrated scowl, it doesn’t look like she’s having much luck. People are shouting, asking Atom what’s happening, if he’s alright, calling for a doctor.

She isn’t sure what they think a doctor might be able to do for the boy, but.

Atom lets out a hoarse scream and falls to his knees. By now, people are running around, calling 911 frantically. There’s a couple of referees rushing a stretcher out towards him, and Clarke goes to shout for them to stop, but she’s too late.

They reach for him at the same time—one grabbing hold of his shoulders, the other his ankles, and all at once there’s a flash of white, like lightning, and both men are flung through the air, trailing smoke in their wake. The air smells like burned flesh, and they’re not moving, and Clarke feels like she’s about to throw up.

She’s running before she makes the conscious decision to do so, sprinting towards Atom as he goes up in flames.

Clarke barely dodges the first strike of lightning that explodes from his skin. He’s not screaming anymore, but now that she’s closer she can see him writhing with his mouth open in silent agony. The second bit of lightning hits the second bleacher stand, and people are running away from the field now. _Thank God_ , Clarke thinks.

The third strike grazes her shoulder and burns white-hot, blackening her shirt and wrenching a guttural whine from her throat. And now she’s growing fur, falling down on all fours, mid-sprint.

She’s also not alone.

There are three wolves flanking her from both sides, and she knows they’re allies. _Octavia’s pack_ , she realizes, and falls into line with them, leading the way. They circle around the scorched earth, now stretching several yards out from Atom as he burns.

The first arrow comes from the forest, and Jasper manages to roll out of the way before it hits his flank. It flies through the air and out of her sight-line, and Clarke turns back to the trees until a scream comes from the bleachers.

 _Raven_.

More arrows are coming, and Atom isn’t moving anymore, and the fire is smoldering, and she can smell more wolves nearby, but all Clarke can really focus on is Raven, lying on the ground. She smells like fear, and pain, and blood, and Clarke has never felt so terrified.

Raven is still awake when she reaches her, but she’s gritting her teeth with the pain, and Clarke collapses down next to her, rolling over on her side so Raven can crawl on with minimal effort. She still grunts with each movement, but she manages to drape herself over Clarke’s back, and she stands gingerly, trying not to jostle her.

She can smell Lincoln and Lexa, and sure enough, they’re standing over Atom—or what’s left of him. The blue-eyed wolf stands beside them, watching Clarke as she pads over, Raven clutching her fur with white knuckles. Clarke feels each of her whimpers deep in her bones. She follows the rest of the wolves out into the trees—the same ones the arrows sprang from, but she can smell the threat is gone. She can hear police sirens approaching; they need to leave.

Once they have cover, the blue-eyed wolf is a human boy—not much older than Clarke, but certainly an adult. He looks vaguely like Octavia, so she supposes this must be her brother-brother, Bellamy. She stays wolf, not wanting to risk setting Raven down.

Bellamy looks pissed, face twisted in a scowl, and dark curls plastered to his skin with sweat. His eyes aren’t blue when he’s human, which throws her off for a minute.

“Maybe now’s a good time to figure out what the _hell_ is going on here,” he snarls, and then he’s a wolf again, leading them all through the trees.

He brings them back to the Blake house, which she sort of expected, but to be honest most of Clarke’s thoughts are taken up by the girl on her back. Lincoln and Lexa keep pausing to glance back and make sure she’s still there. Once they reach the front yard, Clarke slowly lays down and shifts back into sweaty, pale skin and tangled blonde curls. Raven is still slung on her back, but then Lincoln is there, picking her up easily and carrying her into the house. Clarke rushes after, as the rest of them shift and wander inside.

There still isn’t any furniture, and she’s pretty sure a wall and some of the staircase are missing, but the house is otherwise the same. Bellamy and a dark-skinned man she doesn’t recognize are standing in the front room, tossing bed sheets and sweatpants to their pack. Bellamy pointedly meets her eye when he roughly shoves the cat-patterned quilt in her arms. She slings it around her shoulders haphazardly, nervously watching as Lincoln works over Raven.

Lincoln is a healer—he has history with this sort of thing, she knows. He’s told her. It’s obvious, from the careful and assured way he’s handling Raven’s wound, but that doesn’t stop the worry eating at her stomach.

He has Raven bite on his forearm as he pulls out the arrow. She draws blood but he doesn’t even wince. He turns to ask Bellamy about alcohol, for disinfecting, and the dark-skinned man passes him a mason jar of clear liquid. When he opens the lid, Clarke smells the sharp scent of moonshine. He puts his arm in Raven’s mouth again as he cleans the wound, and then dresses it.

Raven’s breathing heavy on the floor when he sits back on his heels, and Clarke suddenly realizes he’s still naked. She reaches for the fleece blanket resting on the stair banister, and carefully drapes it over his shoulders. He gives her a shaky smile and she’s trying desperately not to cry.

“The arrow tip is silver,” Lincoln explains in a growl. “Meant to poison us. But she’s human, so she’ll be fine.”

Clarke collapses on the floor beside Raven and takes her sweaty hand. Raven grimaces. “I can’t believe,” she pants, “I literally just took a fucking arrow to the knee.”

Clarke snorts, not having the energy to give a fake laugh. Raven closes her eyes and squeezes her hand. “You should call Wells,” she mumbles.

“He’ll tell me _I told you so_ ,” Clarke says darkly.

“He’ll be right,” Raven smirks.

“You just almost died,” Clarke says. “How are you still such a dick?”

“Natural talent.”

Clarke glances up to see Lexa and Lincoln standing near the front door, engaging in some sort of silent eye-warfare with the Blake pack. She can’t help her irritation.

“I’m sorry,” she snaps, “Is us being here making you uncomfortable? Because it _was_ you who decided to bring us.”

Bellamy turns to glower down on her. There’s something surreal about a man wearing a bed sheet toga glaring a hole into her head, that makes Clarke want to laugh.

“Not at all, Princess,” he says icily. “I’m just curious—do you make a habit out of getting all your friends almost killed?”

Clarke feels her skin boil dangerously, and it’s all she can do to keep from shifting into fur and teeth. “Fuck you,” she growls.

He offers a mean smile, all teeth. “Not tonight honey,” he sneers. “I’m tired.”

She can feel the anger rolling off of Lincoln and Lexa, as well as the anxiety from the rest of the Blake’s, which is what helps her reign herself in. She turns to Octavia, ignoring her brother entirely. “I don’t think we should move her; can she stay here tonight?”

Octavia nods, “Of course,” and then glares sharply at Bellamy for good measure. They have a wordless argument, which seems to end in her favor, because she gives Clarke a second nod afterwards.

“That invitation doesn’t extend to the rest of you,” he grouses.

“I’m not leaving her with you,” Clarke snaps instantly. He’s about to argue, so she cuts him off. “I remember you. Halloween. You would have killed her. There’s no way she’s staying without me.”

She seems to have surprised him, because the scowl fades into surprise, and then resignation. “Fine,” he spits. “Sleep on the floor, then.”

“Fine,” she shoots back. “It’s not like there are any beds here, anyway.”

 _That_ seems to get under his skin, which. Yeah, she’s sort of childishly smug about it. Lincoln clears his throat.

“I thought we were meant to discuss what happened back on the field,” he says politely. Clarke can still hear the anger in his voice, but he’s keeping it in check. He’s got more control than her, definitely.

Bellamy nods slowly. “You’re right,” he decides, and Clarke isn’t sure why that makes her bristle. “What happened with that kid—that wasn’t natural.”

“You don’t say,” Clarke says wryly. Lexa shoots her a smirk. Bellamy glowers.

“Not even natural for supernaturals like us,” he clarifies. “Atom was human. A hunter, actually.”

Lincoln and Lexa stiffen at that, which is a little disconcerting. They’d been pretty stiff to begin with, but now they look ready to snap in half.

“What’s a hunter?” Clarke asks. There’s no point in not asking just so she doesn’t look stupid; they’ve all been wolves a lot longer than her—she has a lot to catch up on.

The Blake pack turns to her, incredulous. “How the fuck do you not know what a hunter is?” Bellamy blurts. Clarke flushes, half out of embarrassment, and half because she’s pissed.

“I’ve only been a wolf for two months,” she snaps. “It’s not like there’s a course I can take on Being a Werewolf 101.”

Bellamy shakes his head and turns to Lincoln and Lexa. “I thought she was an Alpha.”

“She is,” Lincoln says defensively. “She was attacked by an Alpha, and killed it.”

And, well, _that_ shifts the atmosphere entirely. Monty and Jasper are looking entirely too impressed with Clarke for her to feel comfortable with, and Octavia and Bellamy have tipped their heads identically, almost as if to see her from a new angle. For his part, the dark-skinned man seems more amused than anything, and a little proud, which. Well, it’s not unwelcome, but it’s a little strange.

“Is that unusual?” she asks. “I thought you guys could kill each other—well, maybe not _easily_ , but…”

“But you were human,” Octavia says. “You were human, and you killed an Alpha. _That’s_ unusual.”

“ _That’s_ badass,” Jasper declares.

Bellamy snorts, snapping his gaze away from her at last, which Clarke’s thankful for. His eyes make her skin itch. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves—it happens, just not a lot. Moving on, Atom was a hunter, not a drop of supernatural blood in his body. And yet he turned into a bolt of fucking lightning, which—well, it’s pretty fucking bizarre.”

“Thanks for clarifying,” Clarke deadpans. “It’s all incredibly obvious now—how _did_ we not see it before?”

Bellamy ignores her, which. Boring. “So the question is, how did it happen, and why?”

“That’s two questions,” Clarke points out. Octavia snorts, and Bellamy looks at her in betrayal.

“What do you suggest we do?” Lincoln asks, quick to get them back to the topic.

Bellamy shrugs, suddenly unsure of himself. Clarke frowns; that isn’t allowed—it makes him look human, and she refuses to think of him as anything less than the asshole he is. “I don’t know,” he says. “Ask around. See if anyone’s ever seen something like this, or heard about it. There were hunters waiting in the trees,” he adds. “They must have known this would happen, and that we’d be there.”

“You think it was a trap,” Lexa guesses. Bellamy nods.

“It’s possible,” he admits. “But at this point, so is literally anything else. Just. See what you can find out.”

This seems to be a dismissal, because now Jasper and Monty are trudging up the stairs, with the dark-skinned man following. Lincoln and Lexa both cross over to lay a hand on Clarke’s shoulder.

“She’s strong,” Lincoln says warmly. “She’ll pull through.” Clarke nods shakily.

Octavia turns to him and puts her hand out. “I’m Octavia,” she says, as bluntly as she does everything, but. There’s something shy in her voice, which is something to watch for.

“Lincoln,” Lincoln smiles and takes her hand—which is completely unfair, Clarke thinks; it took Lincoln _hours_ to smile at her. She huffs and turns to Lexa.

“I’ll see you in the morning?” she asks, because you never know. Lexa’s mouth quirks up.

“You’ll see me in the morning,” she agrees, brushing the back of her fingers down Clarke’s cheek, tucking a stray curl behind her ear. Then she and Lincoln are out the door, and it’s just Clarke, Raven and the Blake siblings.

Bellamy tosses a pile of old blankets—some of which she’s pretty sure had just been used to cover naked pack members—down by her knees. “In case it gets cold,” he mutters, before stomping upstairs.

Clarke eyes the blankets distrustfully as Octavia sinks to her knees and grabs Raven’s other hand. Raven’s eyes flutter open at the movement. “How are you feeling?” Octavia asks.

“Like I just got shot with an arrow,” Raven croaks. Octavia snorts.

“I thought you might say that.”

“Your brother’s a dick, dude.”

“I _knew_ you’d say that,” Octavia nods. She glances up at Clarke almost shyly, which still seems a little strange.

“So, your friend Lincoln…” she fishes. Clarke bites back her smile. Mostly. Well, kind of. A little.

“He’s single,” she offers. “And a great guy. Also he owns his own lodge, with, like, a dozen beds, so.”

Raven groans. “This is not happening,” she whines. “You are _not_ setting Little Blake up over my dying body.”

“You’re not dying,” Clarke says, at the same time as Octavia asks, “ _Little Blake_?”

“I’ve been shot,” Raven declares. “I am in pain. This is the part where you hold my hand and tell me how much you love me and how badass I am for taking an arrow to the leg.”

“We are holding your hand,” Octavia points out. “Both of them.”

“And I love you,” Clarke adds. “And Octavia likes you, a little, I’m pretty sure. And Bellamy’s letting you sleep on his floor, which is a huge compliment in dog-language.”

“You’re so good at this,” Raven deadpans. “You should write Hallmark cards.”

“Go to sleep, Reyes.”

 

In the morning, Clarke leaves Octavia to babysit Raven, and hikes to the lodge. Lexa is still there, but Lincoln is stuffing her bags into her car. She finds her making French press coffee in the kitchen.

“You’re leaving,” she says in place of hello. It’s not a question; the bags are pretty indicative. Lexa nods, not at all sorry, but a little sad.

“My pack needs me,” she shrugs, and Clarke gets it, she does. Lexa’s an Alpha, a leader. She can’t just live in Lincoln’s lodge and roll around in the leaves with her all day.

“You should come visit,” Clarke says, mostly because she doesn’t really have much else to say. She likes Lexa, but she still doesn’t really _know_ her that well. She’d wanted to, though.

“You could come with me,” Lexa says softly. “If you’d like.”

Clarke stares dumbly for a moment. “I have school,” she says lamely. “And Raven’s just been shot, and my mom works crazy hours and never eats unless I make her, and I’m the one that gets Wells meat from the morgue, and Lincoln would never leave his house, and—“ Lexa puts up a hand with an amused smile.

“You don’t have to explain to me,” she says. “You are also an Alpha. This is your pack.”

“Yeah,” Clarke nods. “I guess it is.” She helps Lexa carry the rest of her things to her car, and then pins her against the car and kisses her sloppily.

“I’ll visit,” Lexa says, and drives away.

Clarke finds Lincoln pouring her a cup of ginger tea in the kitchen, and leans up beside him.

“I’m sorry,” he offers. Clarke shrugs.

“Don’t be,” she says. “Lexa’s great, but she’s not everything.” _She’s not pack_.

“Still,” Lincoln muses. “It is nice to have someone.”

“I have Raven,” Clarke decides. “And Wells. And you.” He grips her in an affectionate side-hug, and that’s how Bellamy finds them when he strolls in.

“Sorry,” he says, not sorry at all. “Can I borrow you?” he stares at Clarke pointedly. She gulps down the rest of her tea so fast she burns herself, and nods.

“As long as you’re not a dick,” she warns. He smirks and turns to leave.

“No promises.”

She meets him outside, where he’s scuffing his sneaker against the dirt and looking fantastically nervous. She wants to revel in it a little. “That Alpha,” he blurts. “The one you killed, what did you do with it?”

Clarke stares at him for a moment, not really comprehending. “Buried it,” she finally says. “In the woods.”

“Do you remember where?” She wants to say no, because he’s been nothing short of awful, and anyway it’s a personal place for her, and none of his business in the first place. But his eyes are wide and hopeful, and he’s looking so earnest, that she finds herself nodding and turning to lead him to the grave.

With everything that’s happened, she hasn’t been back since the day with the strange-smelling fox, but she knows the way by heart. She points from her safe distance. “There,” she says. “By that clump of weird flowers.”

“Those are dandelions,” he says, amused.

“Like I said.”

He digs up the grave, and she doesn’t offer to help—partly because she can’t stomach the thought of being near it again, and partly just to get back at him. The body is still there, but it’s changed over time. Fur has sunk back into skin, until it’s caught halfway between human and wolf, and now Clarke can see it’s a woman—or used to be—with ashen skin and a few stretch marks and other signs of middle age, and pale brown hair leaking from her head. Her throat and chest cavity are still hanging open from where Clarke tore into her, and that sight alone is enough to make her queasy.

Bellamy stares at the body for longer than seems altogether necessary, before he tosses it back in the earth without much care, piling the soil back over it. When he turns back to find Clarke doubled over, he has the presence of mind to at least seem concerned.

He places a hesitant hand on her back, and she can feel the entirety of it span from the base of her spine to her shoulder blade. It’s comforting, although unfamiliar—she has the terrible thought that _she could get used to it_ , which.

No. She doesn’t have time for that.

“You okay, Princess?” Bellamy murmurs, sounding not at all vindictive, and she doesn’t know what to do with that, so she doesn’t answer.

Eventually her stomach settles and she stands. He reclaims his hand, which disappoints her for a moment before she remembers that it shouldn’t. Their hands stay infuriatingly close the entire walk back to his pack house—but they don’t touch once.

She can hear Raven before she even opens the door, which she takes as a good sign. Bellamy must have seen something in her face change, because he smirks.

“What, surprised I didn’t eat her in the night?” he teases.

“Nah,” Clarke grins. “Octavia would’ve kicked your ass.”

He barks out a laugh, but then they’re inside and that seems to change things, because he heads out back without a word, and she’s left drifting in the front room. She follows the sound of Raven into the kitchen, where Octavia is heating Eggo waffles with a clothes iron. Clarke eyes the set up skeptically.

“My noble steed,” Raven coos. She follows Clarke’s sightline and laughs. “Apparently they have no microwave or toaster, either,” she says.

“We’re wolves,” Octavia snaps. “Why would we need to heat our food?”

“You have saucepans,” Clarke points out.

“Well yeah, that’s because omelets are awesome,” Octavia points out, like it’s obvious.

Which, it kind of is.

She only burns half the waffles, and they slather theirs in bacon grease while Raven spreads butter and blackberry jam, “Like a _normal_ person,” bought specifically by Jasper and Monty that morning.

“Please tell me you did not goad them into buying you pity-condiments,” Clarke frowns. Raven shrugs and bites into her waffle.

“I regret nothing.”

Raven still can’t walk on her leg, but she’s conveniently in a house filled with people that can carry her with one arm, so it’s not that big of a hassle. Bellamy and the dark-skinned man—Miller, Clarke learns—are scraping floral wallpaper in the back family room, and eventually they all get roped into helping.

“It’s like a family activity for him,” Octavia says, rolling her eyes and slapping a soggy strip of paper on her brother’s cheek.

“It builds character,” Bellamy declares, and then dumps the entire bucket of dirty water over her head.

Clarke watches with the sort of fascination that comes from being an only child—annoying siblings were a luxury she’d never enjoyed, or suffered through.

Wells stops by sometime in the mid-afternoon, and introductions are made between him and Bellamy, who only frowns a little in distaste. Until it turns out that Wells has some history with renovations, thanks to a few summers working with his contractor uncle, and then he and Bellamy are in a deeply involved conversation about the merits of arch doorways.

Miller sneaks away upstairs at some point, and Clarke can smell something funny coming from the bedroom, so she goes to investigate, and just generally be nosy.

She opens the door to a cloud of smoke, and three sloppy smiles. Miller does not smile sloppily, but he does look very pleased. Clarke can’t help but laugh.

“I didn’t even know we could get high,” she admits.

“Drunk too,” Jasper pipes up. “It just takes more.”

“Hence the moonshine?” Clarke guesses.

“Give the pretty lady a prize!” Jasper demands.

“Griffin!” Raven calls from the living room. “Griffin I know your super-ears can hear me, and I refuse to be left out of whatever debauchery you’re partaking in!”

 

Things get easier after that—or, at least as easy as they can be, with what her life is now. She still spends a lot of her time at the lodge, training with Lincoln and drinking his ridiculous teas and studying on the lobby sofa, but she ends up at the Blake house more often than not.

Usually Octavia will find her in the hallway at school and make a face, saying “We’re tiling the downstairs bathroom today—come save me from boredom?” Or ask to go over her Biology notes one more time, and then they’ll get sidetracked by Netflix, or Final Fantasy VIII, or one of the boys’ collections of vices, and end up collapsed in some corner of the house, shivering until Bellamy finds them and covers them with quilts.

That’s something she learns about Bellamy; he constantly worries about his pack’s body temperatures getting too low—he has closets filled with thermal blankets, quilts, and winter coats.

“They get used to having a coat of fur,” he explains irritably, “And then don’t understand why they’re cold when they shift back!”

Clarke thinks it’s endearing, though she’d never say. She still likes to say she can’t stand the oldest Blake, which is sometimes true because he delights in being insufferable, but to be honest he’s sort of started growing on her.

“Like mold?” Raven asks when Clarke admits it. “Or more like a tumor?”

“Both,” Clarke decides. “But a little less deadly. Just, inconvenient, and sort of annoying.”

“Who’s sort of annoying?” asks Wells, inspecting Clarke’s refrigerator. That’s something that he’s begun doing—poking around in pantries and fridges, staring at things he can no longer eat. Clarke thinks it’s a form of masochism.

“Bellamy Blake,” Raven says. Wells shuts the fridge door with a lingering sigh.

“He’s a good guy,” he says amiably, but that’s not really surprising; Wells think _everyone’s_ a good guy.

“He’s a brat,” Raven says. “With admittedly great abs.”

Clarke’s phone begins playing _Mr. Brightside_ —Bellamy’s ringtone.

“Subtle,” Raven remarks. Clarke makes a face at her and snatches up her phone.

“Yeah?”

“Has anyone ever told you, you have terrible manners?” Bellamy asks, amused.

“All the time,” Clarke says. “It’s one of my greatest achievements. Did you actually want something, or did you just call to insult me?”

“Why can’t I do both?”

Clarke rolls her eyes, and then realizes he can’t see it. “I just rolled my eyes at you,” she lets him know.

He snorts. “Thanks for the play-by-play.”

“I like to keep you informed.”

“I appreciate that,” she can hear him grinning. He pauses. “I do actually need something though,” he admits.

“Of course you do; you’re needy.”

“I am _not_ needy,” he argues.

“Bellamy Blake, _needy_ is probably your middle name.” She pauses. “Or _grumps_.”

“Bellamy Grumps Blake?”

“Has a certain ring to it.”

“As fascinating as this conversation is _not_ , I really do need you.” She can feel herself blushing, which is absolutely _ridiculous_ , but he must sense the awkwardness in her silence, because he clears his throat loudly. “Need something from you, anyway,” he clarifies. “Can you come over?”

“I can’t just drop everything and show up whenever you call, Bellamy,” she teases, but she’s still a little flustered, so it ends up sounding more serious than she intended.

“Of course not, I didn’t mean—fuck,” he stutters. “I’m sorry, are you busy? It can wait, I’ll—” As much as she enjoys hearing him trip over himself, Clarke decides to stop it before he embarrasses himself further.

“No, I’m not busy. I’ll be there. I just wanted to, you know, prove my dominance, or whatever. Prove you don’t order me around.”

“Right,” he deadpans. “Clarke, I’m fairly sure no one would believe I can order you around.”

It’s a surprisingly serious sentiment, coming from him, and now it’s her turn to clear her throat. “Right. Well, uh, glad that’s cleared up, then. See you in a bit.”

“See you.”

She hangs up and stares at the screen of her phone for a moment, where his contact name glows in white capital letters: PHILISTINE. Mostly because it’ll piss him off if he ever sees it.

“Well, that was adorable,” Raven smirks. Clarke tosses her crumpled Algebra notes at her face.

She’s standing outside the Blake house fifteen minutes later, which is quick even for her. She’d sprinted barefoot, which always helps her go faster, but leaves the soles of her feet cut open and sore.

She’s just about to open the door, when Bellamy rounds the corner. “Clarke,” he calls happily, and he’s smiling—he does that now, and not just aimed at his pack but sometimes at _her_ , she’s still getting used to it—and it should _not_ make her half as nervous as it does. He doesn’t seem to notice, which is good, but it’d be better if she didn’t feel it in the first place.

“Bellamy,” she calls back, and he’s climbing the steps until he’s staring down at her, still grinning, until he catches sight of her feet.

He clicks his tongue in that annoyed-older-sibling way, and kneels down. “What did you do?” he demands.

Clarke shrugs. “It’s fine, really; I’m used to it. They’ll be fine by the end of the day.”

But it’s too late now because he’s taking off his flannel over shirt and gingerly gripping her left calf to lift her foot, and wipe at the blood and debris. He repeats the process for her right foot, soft enough for her to scream, and.

_Oh._

Now he’s looking up at her, still on his knees, with a hand firm on her lower leg, and his face is _right there_ before her pelvis. His eyes are bleeding into black, and she wonders if she’s as red as she feels on the inside.

“Clarke, you’re,” he pauses to lick his lips, and his voice is almost too hoarse to hear. “You’re very close,” he whispers, strained.

“Yeah,” she agrees, because she is, but whose fault is that, really?

“I can,” he stops and closes his eyes, exhaling sharply from his nose. “I can _smell_ you,” he says, which.

Oh. _Oh_.

That knowledge really shouldn’t make her even hotter, but it does, and she feels the heat pool right as he must smell it, because suddenly he’s leaning forward until his nose is pressed against the apex of her thighs.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he breathes, and she thinks _Yeah, pretty much_.

She can practically taste how fantastic it’s going to be, and he’s nosing even closer, until he’s breathing hotly over her cunt, and she can feel the heat of his mouth through her shorts, and _holy fucking God it’s going to be so good_ —

The screen door slaps open and they wrench apart, almost comically fast. Clarke steps back until she’s flush against the wall of the house, and Bellamy manages to somehow fall back on his ass, and Miller is looking between them both, entirely unimpressed.

“Thought we were doing the cabinets today,” he smirks, and yeah, he definitely knows what was going on—what’s _still_ going on, because it’s not like she can just _turn it off_ , and anyway he’s a werewolf too so he can probably smell her, which is mortifying, so Clarke is quick to stumble over a goodbye and basically run away like the coward she is.

When she gets home, she takes a cold shower, and then fingers herself hoping that wherever he is, he can hear her panting his name in the water.


End file.
